


Standing Near The Fire

by Grundy



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of shorts in which other characters react to the events of the 74th Hunger Games. First chapter is Gale. Second will be Johanna. I have plans for and Effie chapter and a Haymitch chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He realized too late what he should have done. It doesn’t even occur to him until he’s watching with everyone else as Peeta Mellark hunts with the Careers. It’s all he can think about the rest of the Games.

Everything he had done made sense at the time. He’d carried Prim to her distraught mother, grimly aware that if the damn slip drawn out of the boys’ reaping ball had his name on it, someone would drag him back. In retrospect, he could have asked anyone there to take charge of her. All of District 12 had been united in the long minute it took Katniss to climb the steps- Primrose Everdeen was one of their own. No one would have let a Peacekeeper lay a hand on her.

Like an idiot, he’d been relieved when his name wasn’t called. Katniss would go into the arena, but he would keep her sister safe at home. Hell, that had been her main worry when he managed to get in to say goodbye to her- _Gale, don’t let them starve!_

But watching the Careers, as his blood boils with rage at the boy who had claimed to love Katniss but was helping the well-fed, well-trained brats from 1, 2, and 4 stalk her like prey, he knew with the all the useless clarity of hindsight. 

He should have volunteered. If he had stayed put, he could have taken Peeta’s place. It should have been him in that arena with Catnip- _his_ Catnip. He could have been the other half of the star-crossed lovers. Between the two of them, they could have made that arena their own. Her talent with a bow, his skill with snares and traps- they could have cleared the opposition within a week. And he would not have had to watch her in that cave with Peeta. Or see how close she’d come to dying for him. 

Ok, so he wouldn’t have known what to do about Rue. He’s as gutted as anyone else by her death and Katniss’ reaction- Prim and Posy were both in floods, his mother nearly as bad- but he’s also relieved that Katniss didn’t have to break their alliance, because he’s pretty sure she couldn’t have done it. Rue’s too much like Prim. He’s not sure he could have killed her either. Maybe they could have left her for one of the other tributes to deal with. If Katniss had already had an ally, Rue probably wouldn’t have risked it.

He ignores the nagging thought that if he had gone into the arena, all of them might have starved- his family and hers. They didn’t have enough stockpiled that they’d eat well enough for very long without both of their hunters. The Everdeens might have managed, since they were only two- Prim had her goat, after all- but not the Hawthornes, unless one of his little brothers took up hunting and got decent at it in a hurry…

He’s also ignoring the voice in his head that sounds exactly like Catnip. _Gale, 24 of us go in, only one comes out!_ He’d have made damn sure that one was her. No matter what. Because it would be easier than living in a world where he’d watched her die for the entertainment of the Capitol. And right up until she puts an arrow into Cato’s hand, deep down he’s terrified that’s exactly how this ends.

It’s only when the boy from District 2 falls off the cornucopia and it’s just Katniss and Peeta left that he believes she will come back. Back home, to 12. To him. He will convince her that whatever happened between her and Peeta was just the pressure and adrenaline of the Games. He lets out a breath that feels like he’s been holding it since the Reaping, and vows that he will never let her go again. 

That’s when Claudius Templesmith announces the Gamemakers’ last twist. _24 go in, only one comes out._ His heart contracts, because he knows that no matter what her reflex was, there’s no way Katniss can kill him. Not now. Not after she saved him so many times. He knows his girl. He can see it in her face- framed clearly on all the screens, in unrelenting closeup as the Gamemakers milk the cruel trick they played on the star-crossed lovers. Her frantic reaction when Peeta tries to give her the win only confirms it.

When Katniss holds out the berries, he knows he’s lost her. Up until now, he’s been able to convince himself she doesn’t love the baker’s boy. Despite her hardened exterior, she has a kind heart, and he knows she could never face the man they’ve traded with for years if his youngest son died in the arena. He told himself his doubts about what happened in that cave were just his own fears, nothing real. But the berries are something more, something he can’t rationalize away. She’s decided she’d rather not come back at all than come back without Peeta Mellark.


	2. Flames On The Side Of My Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna watches the Girl on Fire.

Johanna Mason knows her place. Her place in her district. Her place in Panem. Once a year, her place in the Capitol, her own personal hell. Mentoring the latest victims isn’t really the important part of her role. No, she’s the abject example for whatever poor bastard manages to make it out of the arena alive. The cautionary tale. The one they point to for the new victors. 

Snow was probably secretly glad to have her- Haymitch Abernathy’s getting older. Once victors hit a certain age, they’re nearly all a mess, and the younger ones rarely want to know how they ended up that way. Not asking questions you don’t really want answers to is one of the first things they all figure out. Her defiance was probably a blessing for the Capitol. They needed a cautionary tale for this generation.  
Because no one warns you that the ones who die are the lucky ones. They don’t have to live with it. Don’t have to suffer being put back together and figuring out how to make the body that used to be entirely their own work again. (Sometimes they’re put back together a little different for the enjoyment of pampered citizens.) Don’t have to be whored out to Snow’s cronies or financial backers. Don’t have to realize that they’ve been turned into living, breathing mutts- a creature neither Capitol nor District. 

Mutts do nothing but damage to people from districts. 

She’s not under any illusion that her family wouldn’t have suffered in other ways if Snow hadn’t killed them outright. Everyone’s do, even if it’s only the hurt of the slow freeze that occurs as a victor retreats into their own world, putting up the strongest walls they can contrive to keep what’s left of themselves safe. 

_Outright is the word she insists on, because she will not allow her brain to linger on the actual details- and Snow made sure she knew them. But inside her head are one thousand one hundred seventy-three cubic centimeters that do not belong to him. If he wants them, he’ll have to take them out. Until then, it’s all hers._

She finds herself equal parts irritated and fascinated by Katniss Everdeen. The only Tribute whose name she knows, mostly because she couldn’t avoid it. The girl from District 12 who volunteered to save her delicate wisp of a sister. It would almost be better for both the Everdeen sisters if Katniss doesn’t survive, because Snow doesn’t have to probe at all to find her weakness. It’s right out in the open from the second the desperate words leave her mouth. 

_Reapings bother her less than the Games, possibly because the memories are cushioned by shock. She was the youngest of three children, the smallest, the least significant. It was the first time in her life anyone outside her own family had taken any notice of her- and she knew that most of them had already written her off by the time she reached the stage. They expected her to come home in a box._

She wonders how long it will take Katniss to realize that she hasn’t protected her sister in any meaningful way- she’s only delayed the inevitable, changed the precise details. Because Primrose Everdeen is on the Capitol’s radar now, and that’s no good place for a girl from any district to be. Coriolanus Snow knows her name. What’s worse, he’s unlikely to forget it.

_She shudders to think what will happen to sweet little Primrose when she comes of age if her sister is a victor. Or worse, if the Gamemakers decide it would be interesting to have the little sister of the girl who volunteered be reaped some other year… her sister can only volunteer once, after all. Victors are out of the Reaping for life._

But she finds herself admiring the way Katniss seems almost bored by everything once the Reaping is over. It’s not a reaction you see very often. Tributes are mostly either shellshocked, knowing that they’ve just heard the news of their own death, or eager to get to the arena, foolishly confident that they’ll be that one still breathing at the end. The girl from District 12 looks like it’s all below her, even when the train pulls into the Capitol. She leaves the waving and amazement to her fellow tribute, retreating from the window after one disdainful glance at the crowd.

_That first sight of the shining city blows away nearly every tribute, because it is literally another world. No district kid has ever seen anything like it in their life- how could they? So even the frightened, and Johanna is honest enough to admit she was, gawk at the city and wave at the crowds that come to greet them. Stupidly smile and wave at the people who will destroy them, one way or another._

Then Katniss Everdeen does something else the audience isn’t used to seeing- the tributes from 12 present themselves as a pair at the parade. They hold hands, the entire damn time. They don’t let go of each other even as they wave, catch roses, and blow kisses. The citizens love it. Johanna watches in amazement as the crowd loses its collective mind for them. It’s not unusual for there to be a crowd favorite, but she’s never seen anything like this before in the four years she’s been unfortunate enough to be here in person, or before that when she watched on screens like the rest of Panem. Johanna’s not sure what she envies more- that District 12 suddenly has competent stylists, or that Katniss had someone to hold her hand through that. 

_She was nearly sick to her stomach when she climbed into her chariot, standing next to a boy a foot taller than her who she’d never seen before the Reaping. Neither of them had even looked at the other. They both knew that while he might have a chance, she didn’t. The best that he could do for her was promise that if it came down to the two of them, he’d make it quick._

She knows better than to show her reaction during Caesar Flickerman’s interview show- reaction shots from mentors are sometimes shown on camera- and more importantly, noted by the sponsors who are there in person- but she knew as soon as the Girl on Fire took the stage that her tribute was toast. The girl from 7 had been competent, but not particularly memorable in her interview. She could fight decently, but she was one of the smallest in the whole tribute pool, an achievement considering 11’s girl was a fragile twelve year old who hadn’t hit her growth spurt yet. Sponsors were always going to be an uphill battle, but by the time the star-crossed lovers of District 12 are done, it’s not a hill but a mountain she’d be battling.

_She doesn’t bother with tributes’ names, not even her own. Especially not her own. She doesn’t want to know. She’s already aware she can’t save them, for the most part she can’t even help them. All she can do is make sure the mortal remains of the children of her district return home with some semblance of honor and take whatever abuse their grieving families hurl at her with as much grace as she can muster. She’d refuse this- what can Snow do, kill her?- but with only a single Victor to mentor them, the tributes from 7 would have even less chance than they do now._

The star-crossed lovers. Because of course Katniss Everdeen has that, too. She’s not going into the arena with a boy she’s never met- she’s going in with a boy madly in love with her. Unlike the tributes, Johanna is fairly good at reading people. It’s a survival skill nearly all victors develop. The boy from 12 is genuine. This isn’t just a ploy for the Games. That makes him dangerous- to everyone but Katniss. She makes a note to tell her tribute to steer clear of both of them. Maybe she’ll get lucky and outlast everyone else. And maybe Snow will drop dead on live television, choking on his own evil.

_Johanna had love once. There had been someone back home she was interested in. Unfortunately, she’d been stupid enough to mention his name after her Games. Not even on camera, just in passing. Her naïve volubility had signed his death warrant. After that, she will not inflict the danger of herself on anyone else back home, and she knows a lover from another district would never be permitted._

When the Girl on Fire nearly kills her own true love with a tracker jacker nest, Johanna laughs out loud. The dirty looks she gets from half the room bring home that it’s not just the pampered citizens who have taken to Katniss Everdeen. She’s got other victors on her side, too. Johanna is like a leper among them- most avoid her. She understands why, and treasures the few exceptions. Mags is old enough to simply not give a damn, and Finnick charms everyone out of habit at this point. The only other ones aside from Blight who will have more than the bare minimum to do with her are Haymitch and Chaff- and all three of their respective district escorts and style entourages do their best to keep her away from them. Apparently it’s _inappropriate_.

_She’s not sure how the hell it’s any more_ inappropriate _for a few badly damaged people to hang out with the only other people in the world who truly understand than the entire process that led to the damage in the first place. She said so to her escort the last time the empty-headed tart was chiding her about it. It’s one of the few times she’s seen Blight laugh. She hadn’t told the escort that it had nothing to do with sex. She’s not interested in them that way. She’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual. If they want sex, there’s enough citizens panting for it, even from two of the least popular male victors._

If the ‘cousin’ they interview when Katniss becomes one of the final eight tributes shares any recent genetics with her, Johanna will eat her hat- the hideous origami thing her stylist came up with for her this year, which would have the fringe benefit of getting rid of the damn monstrosity. Go figure. The girl from 12 not only has one boy who loves her, she has two. One of them cares enough to die for her. The other will no doubt be waiting to welcome her home. With him to cushion her, she might even have half a chance at banishing the demons that haunt them all. Johanna can count the well-adjusted victors on the fingers of one hand. 

_No one has ever cared enough for Johanna to die for her. She’s made it her business to make sure that no one ever will. She can’t deal with any more deaths on her account. At least, not District deaths. Capitol deaths wouldn’t bother her at all. But love isn’t possible between a victor and a citizen. Not really. No matter what a few deluded souls may think. There’s no way she could ever overlook their complicity. They cheer for District children to die. For them the Games are just that- games they play to amuse themselves._

Mentors get the live feeds, not the edited show that goes out to the rest of the country. So Johanna can see exactly why the Mentors’ Room has suddenly gone deathly silent except for Seeder’s soft sobs. Snow will read it as pure rebellion, of course, but every flower that Katniss Everdeen sets on the tiny girl from 11 is a forbidden emotion. Love, anger, honor, defiance- things one tribute should not be showing on behalf of another. Things a girl from one district should not be showing another district, let alone all Panem. Johanna doesn’t know what the gesture Katniss makes means, but she follows suit. 

_Johanna knows she would never have done what Katniss has just done. But then, she never would have made such an ally in the first place. You have to be vicious to win the Games, not kind. She’s still here, so there’s your verdict. No one decent ever wins the Games. She’s not sure whether it makes her sad or angry to realize that’s why Katniss won’t win._

When the girl on fire holds out the berries that would extinguish her Johanna realizes she’s somehow become just as much of a fan as anyone else, though probably for different reasons. The fierceness in Katniss’ face electrifies her. She reads in those blazing eyes that the decision is final. The star-crossed lovers will be going home together, one way or another. Heads, Katniss wins. Tails, the Capitol loses. Even if they blast her to pieces right now, the Gamemakers can’t erase what happened. Johanna finds herself holding her breath- along, she realizes, with every other person in the Mentors’ Room. 

_Let one of us really win. Just once. Please._

Joanna’s not even sure who she’s pleading with, because she stopped believing in any god when everyone she loved died for her sins. But she wants the Girl On Fire to win as she's wanted nothing else since she walked out of her own damn arena. She’s pretty sure the entire country wants it. Her legs go out from under her when that is exactly what happens. Katniss Everdeen has won the 74th Hunger Games in a way that makes her more truly a victor than even Haymitch Abernathy. She has forced the Gamemakers to bend to her. 

Looking around from her new spot on the floor, Johanna sees she’s not the only one who’s lost it a little. Chaff’s jaw is hanging open as he gapes at the screen, Mags is weeping openly, Lyme is being supported by her district partner- which is odd because you’d think it would be the other way around with Katniss having just killed the boy from 2. And Haymitch- Haymitch can’t believe what he’s just heard. He’s staring at his console in mute incomprehension.

_It’s not nearly enough, but it’s a start. A spark. They’re not in flames, not yet, but this is going to set a lot of victors thinking. A lot of people thinking. Anyone from Disctrict 7 could tell you that when the conditions are right, it only takes a spark to touch off a wildfire._

But it’s the live feed of Katniss Everdeen that makes Johanna burn. The sight on the screen is one more weapon for Snow’s arsenal- there’s no doubt in her mind he’s already plotting his attack, even as Katniss frantically tries to beat her way through the unbreakable plasglass separating her from the medical team working on Peeta Mellark. In that moment, Johanna wants nothing more than to gather up the Girl On Fire and protect her. Someone has to warn her that sleeves are a dangerous place to wear a heart as big as hers.


	3. Playing With Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch I

Reaping Day is never a good day. Never was, at least not so far as Haymitch can remember, and it certainly hasn’t gotten any better since the day his own name was drawn. Each subsequent Reaping just adds to the horrors- one more layer of bad memories he has to find a way to live with. Another pair of kids he’s powerless to help.

Which is why he’s never sober on Reaping Day if he can help it. Their blasted escort, Trinket, has it down to a finely tuned routine by now- showing up early to rouse him from his drunken stupor and get him presentable enough for the cameras is built into her schedule. He’s usually not as drunk as he acts. He’s saving that for next year, when the Capitol is sure to go all out for the Quarter Quell. This year is just the normal torture.

For once, Trinket was mercifully silent on the ride to the square, irritated at him for something or other. Whatever it was, she’d yelled it at him before he was fully awake, so he could honestly say he hadn’t heard her and had no idea what she was hacked off about. For all he knows, it’s the usual- she doesn’t particularly want to be here either. Nothing either of them can do about it, though.

When they arrive at the Justice Building, he dials up the act. Slurs his words, stumbles a bit. It’s safer to play the clown than for the Capitol to realize just how much hate he has eating away at his insides. He ever lets it show, they might decide to arrange an accident for him next. There are days he would welcome that, but at some point sanity returns and he remembers that without him, useless though he may be, the next set of walking corpses whose names Trinket calls will have no chance at all. No mentor means no sponsors. You can’t win without sponsors. Never could. He owes Maisilee so damn much he’ll never be able to pay back…

He tries not to glare too much at the obligatory reading of the Treaty, or at Trinket as she flutters up to the Reaping balls. He reminds himself it’s her damned job- if it wasn’t her, it would be some other Capitol chit, possibly one who wouldn’t scrape up even a tiny bit of kindness for the kids they escort to their deaths. Compassion might be beyond her, but Trinket at least manages to be nice to them in her own vapid way.

He braces himself as she plunges her bedecked hand into the girls’ pile and comes up with a single fluttering paper. A death sentence waiting to be read. He doesn’t listen as she reads it- he usually tries not to hear. But the shocked reaction of the crowd alerts him that this year is worse than usual. Scanning the girls, he can see why. 

Gil Everdeen had been a classmate of his, well-liked throughout 12 for his friendly way and his knack of scrounging extras that often meant the difference between survival and hunger. He died maybe five years back in the last bad cave-in, the one that might not have been so accidental, leaving a distraught wife and two young girls. It’s the little one who’s just been called. She’s all of twelve, a delicate little thing who favors her mother and must look all kinds of out of place in the Seam. The sullen looks and furious murmurs of the crowd say this new blow to the Everdeens is deeply resented, possibly to the point of riot.

That’s when the commotion starts among the older girls. Gil’s firstborn comes hurtling through the crowd, the others parting for her like water around a rock.

“I volunteer!” she screams.

The words rip from her throat like she’s terrified they won’t be heard, that her little sister will be marched straight to the arena instead of up to the stage.

Trinket is for once unsure of the protocol. Any other time, it would be funny, because she’s so into the intricacies of schedule and rules and everything that the Capitol lays down. But not now. The crowd is still unhappy, and fast turning angry. 

Gil’s younger girl is liked because she’s sweet and pretty and unoffensive. Gil’s older daughter stepped into his place as hunter and forager. Taking the one would be bad, but taking the other is going to do damage to the local economy. More than just the Everdeen girl’s own survival is at stake here. She doesn’t come back, there will be hell to pay.

He glances at the mayor, who’s probably having the same thoughts he is right now. Jack Undersee gruffly orders the girl to get up on stage. Haymitch fights the urge to nod at him, because he’s supposed to be drunk, but he agrees. Hang the protocol. No one but Trinket cares anyway, and Undersee is right to want this mess over as quickly as possible. Give it long enough and the crowd might actually boil over. They’re not very practiced at rioting in 12, and now isn’t a great time to start.

Trinket does her best to salvage things from the Capitol’s point of view, being quite cheerful when the female volunteer finally reaches the stage.

“Bravo! That’s the spirit of the Games!”

Haymitch would love to tell the cameras no one here gives a dead rat’s ass about their precious Games, but even for him that’s going too far.

“What’s your name?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” comes the reply, in a hard tone that tells him a lot about Gil’s girl. She knows, damn it all. Out of all of them, twenty-odd years’ worth of doomed kids, why does the first realist he’s gotten have to be the child of a friend? At least Gil’s not alive to see it.

Trinket tries to get applause for the first volunteer 12’s ever had, but the crowd is not about to play along. They’re furious by now, and more than one person is giving the escort a look that doesn’t bode well for her safety if she sets foot outside the Justice Building without a Peacekeeper bodyguard. He makes a note to say something to Cray the second they’re off camera. 

But there’s a few in the crowd with sense, because instead of rioting, they do something just as dangerous, but a lot smarter. The old salute. Three fingers to the lips, then held in the air. There’s more than one way to interpret it. The first way is love, respect, honor, farewell. That’s for Katniss. The other way is older, and earthier- read between the lines. That’s for Snow.

Katniss looks to be on the edge of tears, and he knows letting her fall apart on camera is a bad idea. But letting the cameras hold this gesture of defiance is just as bad. So he does the only thing he can. He plays the drunk.

He works the stagger as though sobriety is an unfamiliar concept and by the time he reaches the girl, he knows all the cameras are back on the stage like they should be. He throws a companionable arm around her, which makes her flinch- he’ll apologize for the smell later if he remembers- and yells about how much spunk she’s got. Makes sure the cameras will all be trained on him- but that sponsors will also remember her.

Then he realizes he hasn’t quite thought through how to wind up his little diversion. Unfortunately, there’s really only one way to go, ‘drunk’ as he is. 

His last thought as his head hits the ground is the hope Katniss Everdeen and Euphemia Trinket don’t team up to kill him while he’s unconscious.

\---

When he wakes up, he discovers to his consternation that he’s in the hands of Capitol medics. He’d been hoping for Pearl Everdeen, a chance to say something to her before he’s whisked away with her daughter, the one who has Gil’s face.

The doctor gives him a scathing look but doesn’t waste breath telling him off for either his drinking or his ‘antics’. That’s a conversation they’ve had several times before. Instead, he just tells him in clipped tones the do’s and don’ts for the next twelve hours. One of the don’ts is don’t drink. The doc rolls his eyes at that one, well aware of how likely the patient is to take that advice. The do’s include get plenty of rest, and to that end, he’s already on the train.

That doesn’t sit well with him, because right now he should be making sure his tributes aren’t disturbed while they say their goodbyes- no matter his first impression of Gil’s girl, odds are they’re final- and he really would have liked to have a quiet word with their parents. He hopes Trinket had the sense to take over securing their privacy, even if she’ll give him hell about it later.  
With nothing else to do, he goes to sleep.

By the time he comes to again, the train is in motion, and it’s getting dark out. That means he’s not only missed the departure, he’s missed getting to assess his tributes once the cameras finally left them alone. The throbbing in his head makes that usually simple task seem huge. For once, his stagger isn’t feigned as he makes his way into the dining car.

“I miss supper?” he asks.

Then his head injury catch up with him.

Come morning, he’s not too sure how he got back to his own bed, much less into a pair of pyjamas. Trinket’s dressed him before, but only if he could manage to stumble back to his quarters mostly under his own power. Between her smaller build and her ridiculous shoes, she can’t carry him- a point she’s made quite forcefully on several occasions. But he suspects last night he was carried.

With a sigh, he heads for the dining room. The sole bright spot in his annual torture session is the food. And with any luck, given all that happened yesterday, Trinket may have forgotten to remove the alcohol like she’s done the last couple years.   
To his delight, he finds the bar is well-stocked, although before he can do more than marvel at his good fortune, the escort arrives. She’s fuming, and he’s man enough to admit she has reason. He didn’t mean to dump everything on her yesterday.

He holds up his hands placatingly.

“It was an accident, Trinket,” he tells her. 

“An accident? Of course it was. You were so drunk you couldn’t see the edge of the stage!” she hisses.

“Oh, I saw it just fine, sweetheart,” he retorts. “Better than I’d have liked, in fact.”

She pauses, and he watches her do the math. Some of the anger leaves her face, but not all.

“But then-“ she begins.

“It was a good plan, but somewhat lacking in the execution,” he confesses. That’s as much as he can safely say, and as much as he’s going to let her say, because he’s never been able to figure out whether or not Capital security routinely monitor the conversations in here. Even if they don’t, they may well have decided 12 is worth monitoring after yesterday.

“You left me with everything to take care of, including you,” she grumps, stomping over and punching a code into the console on the bar. “And I’m certain you shouldn’t be drinking after a head injury!”

Before his eyes, metal shutters cascade down from their recessed hiding places and cover over all the alcohol. All that’s left is the bottle of vodka in his hand.

He takes this with good grace, aware she could have done much worse, and brings the bottle to the table with him. If he rations it out, it will last him until whenever her temper has cooled enough to let him resupply. He doubts that will be before they reach the Capitol, and she may well get to 12’s suite in the Training Center before he does. 

They eat in somewhat frosty silence until the boy joins them.

“Peeta!” Trinket trills. “I hope you slept well!”

The boy nods, and Haymitch takes the opportunity to assess him. Merchant, but more solidly built then they usually are. He cudgels his brain until it places ‘Peeta’ as one of the Mellark boys from the bakery. He almost laughs at his good fortune. For once he’s got a pair he can work with- provided they’re not idiots. They might even have an outside shot at a winner this year, although he will not allow himself to get his hopes up on that score.

“It’s a big day,” Trinket continues.

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” Haymitch snorts. “It’s the day we present the fattened pigs for the slaughter.”

The boy freezes in the middle of reaching himself a roll, and Trinket slams her fork and knife down, indicating to anyone with a grasp of manners that she is done eating.

“Really!” she snaps, and stalks out.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. He’s not going to sugarcoat things for the kids, no matter what she thinks. If they’re smart, they already know what they’re up against. If they’re stupid, it’s his job to enlighten them. Looks like his liquor rationing is going to have to last a while.

The doors haven’t even closed behind Trinket when Katniss enters.

“Sit down!” he orders, waving her over to the breakfast table. 

He doesn’t say anything while the kids eat. He knows damn well that even if these two are better fed than nearly every one of the kids back home, neither one has ever before in their lives had the opportunity to eat their fill every meal. He’s happy for them to do so while they have the chance- it’s a good idea to bulk them up as much as possible in the short time he has to work with before they get thrown into the arena. 

He can sense the shift in atmosphere when Katniss is done eating. She’s got Gil’s looks, but not his easy way with people. If anything, she reminds him of himself- a little damaged, a little paranoid, and on guard with anyone she doesn’t know. Anywhere else that might be bad. In the arena, it’s a good temperament to have. 

Her eyes have lit on him, and he can read easily that she finds him wanting. He fights not to let the smirk show. She’s smarter than most of the Tributes he’s seen over the years, but she’s still got plenty to learn. 

“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” Katniss says, not quite keeping the skepticism that he’ll have anything useful to say out of her tone.

He can’t resist the temptation to tease her.

“Here’s some advice- stay alive,” he says, and snickers. 

He kind of hopes she does- the idea of sharing the train with her and Trinket every year is appealing. He hasn’t seen them together yet, but he has a feeling oil and water is an understatement. 

To his surprise, it’s not Katniss that comes back at him for the joke. It’s the Mellark boy who knocks the glass out of his hand, shattering it and spilling the contents.

Haymitch considers his options for a split second. The boy being a fighter is something he hadn’t expected. In all honesty, he’d already been considering him cannon fodder. But maybe there are more interesting possibilities here. So he does the logical thing and punches Peeta in the face. 

He’s unsurprised when Katniss joins the assault, and a little impressed that she’s chosen to up the ante by playing with knives. He hopes she genuinely knew what she was doing and it wasn’t just luck that had left his fingers unscathed- if she does, she’s a genuine contender.

“Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?” he demands, unable to account for so much potential to work with when every other year there’s been so little. The teenagers facing him are furious, and Peeta moves to ice his face with practice that speaks of experience. Better and better.

“No, let it show,” he orders, making a decision. At their bemused looks, he sighs and explains, “The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you even made it to the arena.”

“That’s against the rules,” Peeta protests, clearly worried he’d be courting trouble.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. Kids.

“Only if you get caught,” he points out. “The bruise says you fought and weren’t caught.”

He turns to Katniss.

“Can you hit anything besides a table with that?” he asks, deliberately skeptical. As he’d hoped, her whole body screamed that she was going to show him. She flings the knife into the wall, where it lodges in between two panels. Once again, he can’t be sure if it’s luck or skill, but he’ll take it. 

He has a _lot_ of planning to do. Usually by this point he’s already mentally making funeral arrangements. So he makes them an offer- he’ll stay sober as long as they do what he says without a fight. The kids aren’t in a position to refuse, and it’s not much of a sacrifice on his part, given that he has what’s left of the vodka and three bottles of white liquor hopefully still stashed in his room from last trip to last until he can enlist Chaff’s help to resupply. No way Trinket won’t clear the bar in the penthouse after this morning.

\---

When the train pulls in, he turns the kids over to their prep teams after warning them not to bitch and moan about anything the preps do to them- advice more for Katniss than for the boy, from what he’s heard from female victors and a few of his deceased mentees over the years- and marches off prepared to do battle with 12’s bloody useless stylists.

To his shock, that turns out to not be necessary. They have a new pair this year. He blinks. This is almost too much good luck for one Games. It can’t last. He tries to tamp down on his paranoia, but it’s really going into overdrive. Maybe Snow is preparing something particularly nasty for him- or for 12. Maybe he saw through Haymitch’s distraction. Maybe some of the cameras stayed on the crowd. God only knows what happened when he was out cold. Maybe there was a bloody riot.

But Cinna and Portia are far more reasonable than the previous style team, and looking at Cinna’s sketches, he can see that his pair of tributes are about to make the most memorable entrance the Capitol has seen for quite a while. Only difficulty may be in convincing Katniss to go along with it. He doesn’t know her well, but he’d have needed convincing if anyone had tried to light him on fire for the parade.

To his relief, Katniss holds up her end of the bargain. When he sees her next, just before the parade, she’s wearing her fire cape, albeit with an expression that suggests if she ends up burning, her last act before dying will be to wrap her flaming arms around him. For some reason, Cinna is not included in this antagonism, despite it being his idea to torch her.

It’s not enough, though. The entrance is only one thing. They have to get the entire Capital buzzing, and what’s more, they have to do it in a way that links both tributes from 12- so that after one dies, any funds donated specifically to them can be transferred to their district partner. Districts that are smart enough to negotiate those kind of deals have much better odds.

The problem is that unlike most sports, there can be no team in this game. Only one winner allowed. He glances around the stable, and that’s when it hits him. Every other tribute is standing alone. Even the ones already in their chariots are doing their best to ignore each other. They all want to win- they all want to live- so it’s everyone for him- or herself.

It’s a bold move, but when he runs it past Cinna, the stylist’s eyebrows go up and Haymitch is sure that it’s the right one.   
“You better tell them,” he say to Cinna. “The girl’s ready to kill me as it is.”

Cinna smirks, but conveys with a shout- and when that isn’t audible over the noise level, gestures- at Katniss to take Peeta’s hand. Haymitch is thankful that she does so without argument- there may well be cameras on her already. He watches the screens as the flames ignite and is transfixed by the sight of his tributes. They’re on fire, but still alive and untouched by the flames. 

He tries not to linger on the thought that it can’t last.


	4. Cursing The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Effie

She’s never told anybody- far, far too dangerous a risk to take- but Effie _hates_ her job. Loathes it. Wishes the Games would just stop. No more Tributes. No more children to cheerfully escort to their deaths.

Which is an odd thing to think, because a large part of the reason she was chosen for this job is because she loved the Games as a child. She still has the sticker books for every Hunger Games from the 50th on. Not that she really remembers the 50th- she was too young for that, only 3. But her parents assure her that even then, she loved the parade and the spectacle of it all. She remembers loving the Games. As a child, she was enchanted by the beautiful girls who were so brave. In her teenage years, her focus had shifted somewhat- after all, the tributes were her age, and many of the boys were quite handsome.

That was before she completed her training. Before she got to see behind the scenes. Those handsome boys were scared shitless if they had any sense. The beautiful girls she’d imagined were so brave often threw up when the cameras weren’t around, either from nerves, or from too much rich food on stomachs that had never had enough. Sometimes both. 

And every year, 23 of the 24 in the parade went home in boxes, in the refrigerated section of the Tribute train, in a car the Capitol crowds consistently overlook. Unlike the rest of the year’s programming, the boys and girls on the screens during the Hunger Games are not actors. The dead ones stay dead. For the last 8 years, two of those 23 have been children she selected. 

No one in the training program had warned her about the awful feeling that came with being what people in the Districts saw as literally the hand of death. She was the one who reached into those glass balls and drew out the names. It doesn’t make any difference- to them, to her, to anyone- that she doesn’t know the children.

She’s never even sure if she’s saying their names right- District names are decidedly different from Capital names, and no matter what some may think, the names are not pre-selected. She has no way of knowing how some of the odder ones are pronounced. No one ever corrects her if she gets it wrong- except the one time Haymitch had told her in a drunken fury that she’d pronounced the female tribute’s name wrong the entire time. The female tribute in question was already in the morgue, which had made Effie’s dismay at her horrible faux pas all the greater.

Not that Haymitch would have believed it. She knew he thought of her as an odd species of pet- trained to do whatever the Capital wanted, and twice a year that meant chivvying him into behaving for the cameras. He thinks she’s what she was meant to be.

Loyal. A good citizen of the Capital. That was the other part of the reason she had been chosen. She was a model citizen, and she loved the Games. Apparently, that was usually a winning combination, because she’s never heard any other escort voice even the slightest doubt about what they do. In fact, most of the others sound vaguely bored by their jobs- Tributes are not so exciting once you’ve been an Escort for a few years, and unless your District produces a winner, most of the year you’re largely free to collect your salary and concentrate on looking nice and attending parties.

So Effie’s made sure to keep her doubts and growing dislike of her job and the Games to herself. That’s the other downside of having seen what really goes on behind the scenes. She’s painfully aware of the dark side of the power of the Capital, of what happens to those who don’t toe the line. For most citizens, even Avoxes are a nebulous rumor, one which only those families who have experienced disgrace could confirm- and they won’t take such a risk. Avoxes are still alive. Effie doesn’t dare say anything even to Haymitch. She can’t trust what he will or won’t blurt out when he’s overindulged.

And now it’s time, yet again. She’s not sure how drunk Haymitch really was this morning- it took her several years to realize that he plays a role for the cameras as surely as she does. But she really was cross that he had spilled food on the new suit she’d had sent for him. The clothes were ruined before he’d even worn them. She had hoped that for once, he might be properly presentable. She can only be thankful that her superiors never take issue with her management of him- usually she’s complimented on her tactful handling of one of the most difficult Victors.

Haymitch has stumbled into place, the Mayor has done his part, and now it’s her turn in the spotlight, the worst part of her job. She steels herself, and reaches into the ball. One small fluttering scrap of paper is in her hand, which does not shake as she unfolds it. A small part of her is thankful that for once she’s certain how to pronounce the name. 

She knows as soon as she’s said it that something is worse than normal, and her heart almost breaks when she sees the tiny girl, a twelve year old, whose peers have drawn back in shock, as if even touching her might mark them for death next. There’s no doubt in Effie’s mind that this child is one of the ones who’s been dreading the Reaping all year, and now the absolute worst has happened.

She pastes a smile on her face and encourages the girl to come up to the stage, because the most merciful thing she can do for poor little Primrose Everdeen is see that the Reaping is brought to a close as quickly as possible. 

That’s when things unravel. The girl who rockets through the crowd, screaming ‘I volunteer!’ undoes Primrose completely. She’s carried away, shrieking protests, as her older sister walks up onto stage with the shellshocked certainty of someone who is old enough to fully comprehend what she’s just done and what it means.

Effie finds herself unnerved by this. She can tell that everyone on stage is worried, and for the first time, the attitude of District 12 frightens her. She’s always known these people hate her, but she’s never before been afraid for her own safety. She’s almost grateful that Haymitch’s drunken antics break the tension, except that now she has an injured Haymitch to deal with on top of not knowing what the protocol is for volunteers that has never before been needed in 12.

When Peeta Mellark joins them on stage, Effie does her best to put a good face on it, but she rushes them off the stage as quickly as possible. This year is a disaster, and she has a dreadful premonition it will only get worse, although she’s not entirely sure what can be worse than the usual 2 dead children. Some part of her mind whispers that it’s probably better not to think on it.

Effie hates her job.


End file.
